


Floorplan

by stardropdream



Category: Blood-C
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, F/M, Non Consensual, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:41:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His entire body screams at him to run away, but that just makes him want it more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Floorplan

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ March 12, 2012.

It’s the way she glares at him that excites him the most. Red eyes glare at him, expression never once wavering. The red flares and then melts away, but the hard glint remains in her eyes. Hooked up to the wires, little wings, too weak to move, he can still feel the power in the tension of her muscles, the fury so clearly burning in her eyes. It stirs the primal urge of fight or flight within him, locked in the room with someone weighed with deadly strength.   
  
“You’re so angry, Saya- _chan_. I wonder why that is?” he asks, voice mocking, name mocking as he smiles at her. As if he doesn’t know. As if it wasn’t obvious since the beginning. It’s a foolish question. But it’s worth it to see the cold fury in her eyes, the brief moment when she shifts, as if to fight, before her body exhausts itself and the blood hums away through the tubing.  
  
He approaches the chair she is tethered to. The shackles on her wrists shudder a bit as she tenses up, watching his approach, wishing to strike him down. He moves cautiously, despite his confidence in his own safety. His entire body protests the warping of boundaries, as he steps close enough that the toe of his shoe briefly slides against hers. Her eyes narrow and her nostrils flare—her entire body longs to lash out and hurt him.  
  
His smile only widens, and he fights the urges in his body to recoil. He resists and yet he longs. He covets her even as she terrifies. He drops his hand onto her forearm, marvels at the way she tenses up under his touch. And then shoves him away. He chuckles, reaches out to touch her again. His fingers curl, nails scraping against the deceptively delicate curve of her wrist, following the bloodlines of her veins.   
  
“Do you like it?” he asks, voice deceptively cheerful. Always smiling. His eyes glint in the near darkness, their eyes meeting with a flash. He feels the glee bubbling up inside him as he traces his fingers up her arm, and she does nothing to stop him, is unable to stop him.  
  
“Your boldness only serves you when you know I can’t stop you,” she hisses, her voice soft from lack of use but still a deadly reminder. She doesn’t move to push him away, too tired from lack of blood to move too strenuously, but it’s possible she’s just saving the strength, for when he finally got too close.   
  
“It may be so, but what matters is that I _am_ in control now,” he says, smile still just as pleasant as before.   
  
He steps to her, pushing one of her feet aside so he stands between her legs. She looks up at him, curiosity in her eyes for a split second before she resumes the look of heated revulsion. His hand touches at her jaw, and she tips her head away, defiant. It only makes him smile more—  
  
Longs to touch. His fingers drag under her chin, against her throat, up over her ear—her breath catches, for half a moment, before she can stop it. Victory for him.   
  
“You really are so beautiful,” he says. Perhaps it’s wonderment he detects in his own voice—and why shouldn’t he be? There’s something dangerously wonderful about this creature before him. He can’t help but be captivated.   
  
She doesn’t respond, but he knows she’s listening. He kneels down a little, so that they are eye to eye. He lets his hand fall upon her thigh with easy intimacy. Her eyes flicker down and then up to meet his.  
  
She looks as if she’ll say something. Or, more accurately, it seems as if she wishes to spit in his face. He slides his hand up her leg, holds it there. She sucks in a harsh breath. Her mouth parts, as if to speak, but again no words, not a sound, escapes. His other hand plays with the hem of her shirt.   
  
They stay like that. He leaves his hands on her, toes that line. She doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word. But her eyes speak for her. Her eyes pulse once, burn red, glare down at him with all the strength she can muster, all the strength she wishes she had but seeps away through the machine. Her blood hangs in the air, mocking her.   
  
“I think you do like it,” he says, partly only because he wants the reaction.   
  
She doesn’t answer immediately. Just watches him. The air is still around them, save for the clinking of the glass jars housing her blood.  
  
She narrows her eyes. “You’re a fool.”   
  
He doesn’t acknowledge her insult, benign as it is. Yes, perhaps he is a fool. But when has foolishness ever stopped him before?   
  
He ghosts in close, their eyes still locked. “What would you do if I were to kiss you?”  
  
She doesn’t respond right away. In fact, her first reaction is no reaction at all—as if she has not heard the question at all. She stares at him, calculating. And then her glare intensifies. He sees her hands clench, the knuckles turn white.   
  
His hand raises from her shirt to brush his thumb against her lips. She bares her teeth, a sharp scowl.   
  
“Do you want it… or would you protest?” he asks, half to himself and half to her. Unsure which one reaction he would want more.  
  
Her eyelids lower just a fraction. Anger. Resentment. But she doesn’t answer.  
  
He leans in to kiss her, hungry. His tongue pushes into her mouth and he’s exploring and devouring her, hand cutting into her cheek then pulling on her hair to drag her closer. She bites down on his tongue, not enough to draw blood, but serving as her silent protest—  
  
But instead of recoiling, this just fuels her more and he kisses her with bruising force, fingers curled tightly into her hair, lips stealing her breath. He drags her into him, and the chair scrapes against the floor. He feels her tense up from the pain of it, as the artificial veins tug at her skin in protest of the movement, steal her blood.   
  
He pushes the hand on her thigh further up, ghosts his fingers against her. She doesn’t gasp, but he feels her stiffen up beneath his touch. Another silent victory.  
  
Finally, he breaks the kiss, lingers very slightly, feels her breath mingling with his. Her eyes flash in the darkness. She strains against her binding. But still she is too weak to move, still helpless against him.  
  
“Saya-chan,” he says, quietly, voice mocking. She says nothing. “Saya.”  
  
Her eyes close.  
  
He pushes his fingers up against her. Her lips part, briefly, before she’s licking them, just a quick dart of her tongue. Still his body screams to run away, but he knows he won’t, knows he doesn’t want to. So, instead, he presses in closer, hands tangled to her, in her hair, against her inner thigh. Exploring, laying claim, dominating.  
  
He wonders what’s passing through her mind as he kisses her. What slow ways of killing him is she imagining? Does she picture him bleeding to a dry husk, being torn limb from limb? The thought gives him pleasure, makes him hum with the victory of dominating her hatred, dominating her thoughts.  
  
“I won’t lose to you,” she whispers against his mouth as he pulls away to breathe.  
  
He smirks. He feels the bubble of glee at the base of his throat. “We’ll see.”  
  
In truth, he feels as if he’s already won, as if she has already compromised, sitting in this chair, trying to suppress the arch of her spine whenever his fingers brush up against the summit of her things. No, in his mind, he feels his victory and thrives in it.  
  
He hooks his fingers in the line of her underwear, pulls down. Her eyes narrow, but he’s too drunk on this power to truly fathom it. He untangles his fingers from her hair, cups one breast, squeezes it harshly.  
  
For her part, she is silent. Her own protest. Struggling would please him too much, and she knows it.  
  
Her eyes flicker to his mouth and back up again.  
  
His fingers curl up her thigh, centers, and pushes into her one by one, exploring the slick heat. One finger, then two, feeling the stretch and resistance. Her legs shudder, and then widen a fraction. Her eyes meet his. He smirks at her, expression hard.  
  
“You won’t push me away?” he asks.  
  
She doesn’t answer. She only tips her head back, raising her chin, her jaw clenching as she swallows thick around the words she won’t say.   
  
He slips in the third finger, thumb brushing against her. Her eyes flicker and, despite herself, she writhes down against his hand. He leans in closer, lips ghosting against that clenched jaw. He bites at her ear, breathes against the shell, smells the wisps of her hair as his fingers press in deeper and she spreads her legs to him.  
  
He shifts away, bites at her lower lip instead until she opens to him and he explores the corners of her mouth, tastes her, controls her. She arches, body bonded down.  
  
He pulls his hand from her only to fumble with his pants, his only wavering, his only sign of weakness, and he curses the shake of his own hands. It’s almost too much. But not enough to stop. Soon he’s navigating the tight space of her legs and the chair. But she raises her hips, an invitation, and he shoves into her, fast and painful—hoping she’ll gasp.  
  
She doesn’t. She only glares, a glimmer of triumph in her eyes. He pulls out a little only to slam back in. The chair whines from the force. The artificial veins sing with her blood as it’s extracted slowly from her body, her pulse quickening.   
  
“I hate you,” she murmurs as her body clenches around him.  
  
He squeezes her breast and rocks forward, keeping his pace steady and powerful.  
  
“And yet you’re like this,” he chides.  
  
She doesn’t answer, just tips her head to kiss him with bruising force. She bites on his lip hard enough almost to draw blood, but of course she is unable. But she is hungry. He can tell that much when he pulls away and sees her eyes burning red. How desperately she wishes to hurt him, wishes to kill him.   
  
He moves against her body and the chair rocks in time to his thrusts. Her body tightens around him. And before he can truly process it, he is coming. He tenses up inside her and swallows around a choked gasp, stilling as he fills her with his seed. She is still beneath him as well.   
  
When he pulls away from her, he slides out from the inside of her. She is shivering, only for a moment, but still she says nothing. He composes himself, fixing his clothes and smoothing his hair. He straightens, looking down at her.  
  
She stares up at him. He smiles, a touch softer this time, and traces along the underside of her chin, brushes his thumb against her mouth, swollen and red from his kisses and bites.  
  
“Beautiful,” he whispers, brushing at her hair briefly.  
  
And then he leaves her, closing the door with a snap and leaving her in the darkness.  
  
She closes her eyes.


End file.
